


your eyes look like coming home

by countthestars



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Dating, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Steve attempt to track down the Winter Soldier.</p><p>The Winter Soldier has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your eyes look like coming home

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much how I imagine the plot of Captain America 3 would go if they let me write the script. Warnings for minor violence, too many romcom cliches, and not enough plot.
> 
> Thanks to Rachel for looking this over! You helped more than you know. Title from "Everything Has Changed" by Taylor Swift.

“Here's my question,” Sam says grumpily. “How is it that despite being SHIELD's most wanted, the Winter Soldier can hop on a plane and fly across the whole damn ocean without anyone knowing, but Captain America can't make it through customs without being mobbed?”

Steve smiles, a blinding flash of white, even teeth, and takes the replica plastic shield being shyly offered to him by a kid that can't be older than five. He scribbles his signature across it in Sharpie. “Because he's a HYDRA trained superspy and I'm a national icon?”

“We're in _France_.”

Steve hands the boy back his toy shield and he grins up at Steve, showing off the gap where his front teeth should be. “Merci,” he says timidly after his mother prompts him in quiet French.

“Beinvenu,” Steve replies easily, followed by a string of incomprehensible French that makes the boy's smile widen. His mother offers a quick smile of her own in thanks before tugging him along by the hand.

“Really. Really? You speak French. Of course you speak French.”

With a shrug, Steve waves to the few stragglers left of the crowd before finally leading them towards the exit, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Spent a lot of time here, during the war. You pick it up pretty easily.”

Sam has to hurry to keep up with Steve's long strides. “What, the super strength and healing wasn't enough? You gotta be good at learning new languages, too?”

Shooting him a grin over his shoulder, Steve tosses back, “You'd be surprised at everything I'm good at, Sam.”

“Yeah, and so humble about it,” he grouses. Steve laughs, stepping out the door of the airport and into the bright afternoon sun. Hitching his own bag more securely over his shoulder, Sam follows after him.

-

When Sam had agreed to help Steve chase down the Winter Soldier, he didn't think he was signing up for a transatlantic flight and a backpacking trip across Europe. He'd enlisted straight out of high school, and while the Air Force had made college possible, he'd never had the means – or the time – to take a gap year, to explore the world on his own terms.

He's not sure this experience quite makes up for it. After the public relations disaster in Paris Charles de Gaulle – really, the Winter Soldier is hard enough to track down when you don't have a mob of people clamoring for autographs following in your wake – Steve had changed tactics to get them off the map.

Apparently, off the map means a grotty hotel room on the outskirts of Reims. Steve's got the Winter Soldier's file spread out across the dingy floor, pouring over documents he's already read a hundred times, searching for clues he missed.

Sam watches him from where he's perched on the edge of a chair. It's about the only safe thing to touch in the whole room. He'd tried to take a shower earlier, and a roach crawled out of the drain. Sam still hasn't forgiven Steve for laughing at his pain.

Now, though, Steve's face is tight with worry and the crow's feet creasing his skin can't be mistaken for laugh lines. There are dark smudges under his eyes and Sam realizes with a start that he can't remember the last time Steve has slept. Sam himself hasn't caught more than a few hours at a time since they landed, and that was nearly a week ago.

“Cap.”

Steve doesn't look up.

“Steve,” Sam tries, louder. There's still no response, so he reaches for a pen, flicks it at Steve's head. Steve jumps theatrically, finally looking up at Sam with wide eyes. “What was that for?”

“Pack it up. We're getting out of here.”

Steve's mouth thins as he frowns. “Why? I thought we agreed, we need to lay low until we figure out our next move, make sure that Bucky doesn't know we're coming--”

Sam nearly rolls his eyes. “We haven't heard so much as a peep from him since the airport security footage, which might not even--”

“It was him,” Steve interrupts darkly. “Trust me, it was him.”

“Fine,” Sam agrees. “Then the chances he's still in France are, what, slim to none? We're not doing any good holing up in some dump with _roaches_ , for christssake.” He resolutely ignores the way Steve's lips twitch at the word roaches and shoulders on. “We need to refuel and recharge. So pack it up, because I want dinner that wasn't reheated in a microwave and a bed that doesn't have bedbugs.”

Steve looks at the bed in surprise. “There are bedbugs?”

“Yes, which you would know if you _actually slept_. C'mon, soldier. There's a restaurant only a few blocks from here that had some great Yelp reviews.”

Steve's brow furrows in confusion. “Yelp?”

There are a lot of things Sam likes about Steve, but probably his favorite is that he's worse than Sam at the internet. Steve has an unbelievably brilliant tactical mind, can puzzle his way through just about any problem, but Sam once saw him stare at his Facebook page for a full twenty minutes trying to figure out how to 'poke' Natasha back.

“Nevermind. Just meet me in the lobby in ten minutes, okay?” He's not going to spend a second longer than necessary in this room. Roaches like to hang out in packs.

-

The food is better than promised and Sam groans his way through a plate of appetizers that he can't pronounce while Steve watches him with amusement.

“That good, huh?” he asks with a smile.

Shoving another bite in his mouth, Sam chews and swallows before he says, “Listen, I know you prefer the boiled cabbage of your youth, but I'm tellin' ya, man, this is the best thing I've ever tasted.”

Steve snorts and when Sam drops his gaze for a minute, he reaches out lightning quick to snatch a bite from Sam's plate.

“Hey!” Sam protests as Steve shoves it all in his mouth, chewing noisily. “A man's plate is his kingdom. You can't just violate someone's kingdom like that.”

Swallowing with a loud gulp, Steve grins. There's a candle on the table between them – French ambiance, honestly – and the flickering light catches on his eyes, the familiar blue turned almost black.

“I'll make it up to you,” Steve offers.

Sam sits back, arms crossed over his chest. “How?”

Leaning forward, Steve promises in a low voice, “I'll share my dessert with you.”

He takes a moment to consider before nodding his head. “I accept.”

It's only when he and Steve are halfway through devouring a slice of the most moist, decadent cake Sam has ever had the privilege of tasting that the skin on the back of his neck prickles. He turns slightly in his chair, surreptitiously scanning the room, but can't see anything out of the ordinary.

Steve picks up the check, paying in cash, and Sam can't quite shake the feeling of being watched. They slip out of the restaurant and into the cool autumn air, but the feeling doesn't go away until they reach the hotel – a new one, thankfully, with clean sheets and no bugs in sight.

-

A few days later, the bags under Steve's eyes have all but disappeared, along with any sign of the Winter Soldier. Steve decides to follow a long-shot, some obscure reference to a long since abandoned HYDRA base on the border of Belgium and Germany, and Sam finds himself next to a white-knuckled American icon on a too-long train ride.

Sam insists on getting the window seat and Steve doesn't even put up a token protest, surrendering without a word and sinking into the seat next to Sam. He's uncharacteristically quiet the entire ride, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

If Sam's learned anything working with the VA, it's that there's a time to talk, and a time to shut the hell up. He leans back in his seat, letting his shoulder bump into Steve's. Steve doesn't look up, but he relaxes a fraction, arm still pressed to Sam's.

-

They find nothing but dust and deadends at the base, but the unsettling feeling of being watched comes back in full force, making Sam's skin itch.

-

Steve liberates a car in Germany, but gets indecisive just past the border. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel and he angsts so hard that Sam can see a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Talk to me, Cap. I'm a man of many talents, but I can't actually read minds.”

The smile he gets in return is a ghost of Steve's usual bright grin, but it's a smile, nonetheless.

“I don't know what to do, Sam.” Steve confesses. “I'm trying to get inside Bucky's head, figure out where he'd go next, but...”

“He's not Bucky anymore, is he?” Sam says gently.

Steve shakes his head stubbornly. “We don't know that for sure. What they did to him, what he--” he cuts himself off with a noisy breath. “Bucky's looking for answers, right now. He's got to be. I just don't know if he'd risk exposing himself to HYDRA, if Germany is too dangerous...”

“Steve,” Sam says slowly. “Have you considered that the Win- that Barnes might not want to be found? That we might be chasing ghosts until he's ready to find you?”

Steve's fingers tighten on the steering wheel, but he still doesn't shift the car into drive. “What makes you think he'll try to find me?”

Sam shrugs. “Like you said, he's more than likely looking for answers. And you, Steve?” He raises a brow. “You're answers.”

-

Waiting for the Winter Soldier to come to him is too much like throwing in the towel for Steve, but Sam figures that running around Europe is as good a hobby as any to keep him preoccupied until he gets over himself. Sam puts his foot down at sleeping in the car – it's like Steve has an aversion to comfort – and they wind up at some bed and breakfast that's secluded enough to please Steve and with enough basic amenities (like indoor plumbing) to please Sam.

Things are going great, until they try to check in.

Steve's German is rusty and Sam's is nonexistent, but numbers are the same in every language. The more Steve tries to explain, however, that they need _zwei_ beds _danke_ , the more alarmingly coy looks they get from the matronly woman manning the desk. Eventually, she shushes Steve's stuttering attempts to communicate and leads them to a room up on the second floor, unlocking the door and gesturing grandly inside. Nestled between two ornate end tables, there's a single queen sized bed covered in an abundance of throw pillows and what appears to be a hand-sewn quilt. Sam shoots Steve a questioning look.

Steve turns towards the innkeeper with a hesitant smile and she beams back at him, pressing a worn key into his hand. She says something in German that makes his cheeks turn a curious pink before turning on her heel to escape down the hall.

“What the hell just happened?” Sam asks as soon as she's out of earshot.

“Um.” Steve says. “I think that she thinks that... she's doing us a favor?”

“A favor,” Sam repeats flatly. “How is sharing a bed with your dumb dorito body a favor?”

Sam's seen firetrucks redder than Steve's face. It's an interesting, if alarming, color. “We don't – you shouldn't – I can take the floor, I don't mind. Really.”

Stripping off his shirt, Sam heads towards a door that he hopes is hiding a bathroom with a roach-free shower. “There's more bed than floor, man. We can just share.”

“Oh.” Steve says. Sam glances back at him over his shoulder, but Steve is determinately staring at the excessive amount of pillows piled on the bed like he can burn them with his eyes. He wonders absently if there is a serum that can give people _that_ power and makes a mental note to ask Steve to bug Tony about it later, because otherwise what's the point of having friends in high places?

Sam barely even feels bad about using up all the hot water, and less so when he emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam to see Steve already curled up on one side of the bed, decorative pillows stacked in a neat pile on the floor. Throwing on a mostly clean pair of sweatpants, he slides under the quilt on the opposite side of the bed. It feels like a marshmallow and Sam's last thought before he drifts off to sleep is that he's always loved s'mores.

-

Normally, Sam wakes up quickly: asleep one moment, awake and alert the next. Its an old habit he could never quite break, leftover from two tours in hell and a deep-seated need to survive. Right now, though, trying to blink awake up is like swimming through mud. He feels warm and content, burrowed under covers with a broad chest pressed snugly against his back and a strong arm wrapped securely around his waist.

He blinks; half-asleep one moment and suddenly wide awake the next. On instinct, he tries to sit up, but Steve half mumbles something into the skin of his neck, arm tightening around Sam to pull him closer.

“Oh my god,” Sam says aloud, voice still sleep-rusty. “I'm being cuddled to death by Captain America.”

Steve stiffens up against him, warm breath tickling the back of Sam's neck in a startled puff of air as he becomes fully conscious. With careful, deliberate motions, he extracts his arm from around Sam and rolls over onto his back. He keeps rolling over until he's nearly hanging off the edge of the bed, face pressed into his pillow.

Freed from the iron grip of justice, Sam sits up, ready to open his mouth with a quip when Steve says in a muffled voice, “can we just. Never talk about this again?”

Sam contemplates that for a moment. “I just have one question. Now, normally I would never ask something so personal, but seeing as it was personally pressed into my thigh just a minute ago...”

Groaning loudly, Steve buries his entire head underneath his pillow. The back of his neck is tinged pink, which is an impressive place to blush, in Sam's humble opinion.

He grins. “So was that another side effect of the serum, or were you just happy to hold me?”

“I hate you,” Steve mumbles.

With a laugh, Sam swings his legs out of bed, reaching for his bag. “I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Look, it's a perfectly natural reaction, especially when you sleep next to a specimen such as myself--”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Sam sees him peek his head out from under the pillow a moment later when he doesn't respond and his eyes grow comically large when he spots the phone in Sam's hand. “If you're texting Nat right now, so help me, Sam.”

Sam sends Nat a string of emojis he's sure she can decode (American flag, eggplant, two thumbs up) and says, “relax, Stevie, it's a secure line.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” Steve replies darkly.

Neither one of them notice the narrow gap between the edge of the curtain and the window frame, or the dark shape that melts away as the sun climbs higher into the sky.

-

Sam argues passionately that breakfast is half the point of staying in a Bed and Breakfast, but relents when he sees the expression on Steve's face when they walk down the stairs to spot the innkeeper eyeing them with obvious interest.

Steve offers a hasty danke before fleeing, a laughing Sam following in his wake.

-

Germany has nothing to offer but ghosts and fragmented pieces that paint a gruesome picture of Bucky's past and nothing at all about his future. Sam and Steve had gotten the gist of how HYRDA turned Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes into the Winter Soldier from the file Nat had managed to get her hands on, but the few remaining bits of intel they find in abandoned bases and safehouses strewn across the German countryside reveal the unfathomable depths they were willing to go.

Steve punches a wall hard enough to shatter the bones of a normal man after a particularly grim discovery and he's still breathing hard when Sam gently grips his shoulder, leading him back outside. It's dark, the moon barely a sliver, and Sam stands with Steve in the shadows of the building until his breathing slows and the tightness of his muscles relaxes under Sam's hand.

The itch of being watched is back, but Sam's grown so used to it by this point that he barely registers the unsettling feeling prickling at his skin.

-

They run out of even the coldest of leads to follow, but it only makes Steve more determined. Switzerland is a stone's throw away, so Steve sets it in his sights. “Zola was Swiss,” he reasons. “And he's the one who developed the algorithm to predict the future. Maybe we can find something about him that will help us find Bucky.”

It's beyond a long shot, but Sam has been to the Captain America Smithsonian exhibit. Before the serum, Steve Rogers would have come up to his chin. The serum made him bigger and stronger, but that bullheaded attitude was all Steve, even when he was 5'4” and a buck twenty soaking wet. Sam doesn't think Steve knows how to give up.

“All right, man,” he agrees. “Let's go to Switzerland.”

-

They hit a small glitch in Switzerland.

Actually, it's a large glitch. Or maybe less of a glitch, and more of a blaring alarm and an outpouring of HYDRA agents, scattering like a colony of ants from under an overturned rock.

Ants with guns and an order to shoot on sight.

Sam's lungs are burning as they race down the street, shoes slapping against the pavement faster than he ever managed on his morning jogs.

“Don't you say it,” he pants as they cut down an alley, emerging onto a thankfully empty side street. “Don't you fucking say it.”

Grinning, Steve bumps his shoulder into Sam's. “On your left.”

“You son of a _bitch_.”

Steve's still grinning when they finally escape, finding refuge in a run-down, abandoned flat. Sam flops down on his back on the dusty floor, chest heaving, and hopes there's no bug infestation to ruin his night. He glances over at Steve, who's barely broken a sweat, looking pristine in his too-tight shirt.

“You're not happy unless we're in immediate danger of dying, are you?” he accuses.

Shaking his head, Steve's smile grows even brighter. “Wouldn't be so many agents, would there, if they weren't protecting something?”

Sam stares at him for a full minute. “You want to go back, don't you.” It's not a question.

Shrugging, Steve says, “I want answers.”

Sam takes a moment to wonder how he got in this deep with someone as reckless with their own life as Steve, but he knows it stretches back further than a bedraggled Captain America showing up at his door asking for help, or a fellow soldier jogging around the mall. It started out as hero worship, a skinny black kid reading comics with the pages worn thin, fingers tracing over a face that looked like his, standing next to Captain America like an equal.

Gabe Jones would have followed Steve Rogers into hell. Sam relates to him more than he ever thought he would.

“So what's the plan?”

Steve smiles wide, teeth glinting faintly in the starlight.

-

“This was a shit plan.”

Steve grimaces. “It's possible I didn't think this part through.”

Glancing around the corner, Sam fires a few rounds down the hallway. Both agents running towards them fall to the ground, unmoving, but the sound of approaching footsteps doesn't stop.

Sam shakes his head. “It's no good. They keep comin'.”

Steve tugs him the opposite direction, deeper into the base. They'd managed to extract a wealth of information from the database before tripping the alarm. The look on Steve's face when it started screaming would have been hilarious, if Sam wasn't in sudden danger of being gunned down by enemy agents.

“You're supposed to have great plans,” Sam grits out as he follows after Steve down a maze of hallways, gunfire exploding around them. “They wrote a song about it.”

“If you could never mention that song again, I'd appreciate it,” Steve answers, sounding a bit winded. “And anyway, they never said my plan was _great_ , just that I _had_ one.”

“So what's the plan now, star-spangled man?”

Steve makes a face at the name. “Shoot the bad guys. Find an exit.”

“Great idea!” Sam exclaims. “Can't believe I didn't come up with it myself.”

“Not helping, Sam.”

They run down another passage, warning lights flashing overhead, and Steve spots an open door. “Through here!” he shouts, shouldering his way in. Sam follows on his heels and Steve slams the door shut behind them.

The blare of the alarm is slightly muffled in here, which is nice for Sam's eardrums but doesn't exactly instill a lot of confidence in their ability to find an exit.

“You didn't happen to download a blueprint before we were rudely interrupted, did you?” he asks, nodding towards the flashdrive in Steve's hand.

Steve smiles sheepishly. “Maybe? That's more Nat's specialty, honestly.”

A quick glance around the room reveals its the HYDRA equivalent of a broom cupboard. There's some questionable looking equipment instead of brooms, of course, but no obvious exits save for the door they entered through.

Sam and Steve exchange a glance. Holstering his gun, Sam picks up something that looks vaguely like a sinister water pistol. “What do you think this does?”

“Probably something painful. Do me a favor, aim it at the next HYDRA agent we see.”

Sam grins as Steve reaches for the door handle. “You got it, Cap.”

With a deep breath, Steve swings the door back open. The alarm is still wailing loudly, but the hallway is empty. Cautiously, Steve leads the way through the snaking passages, back towards civilization. He and Sam occasionally have to step over a slumped, lifeless body, but Sam doesn't get to try out his HYDRA super-soaker on anything moving.

“Does this seem too easy to you?” he asks Steve in a cautious whisper. “'Cause this seems too easy to me.”

“Something's off,” Steve agrees, ducking his head to peek around yet another empty corner.

They make it nearly to the exit without running into any trouble. Sam's watching Steve's six, treading cautiously behind him, but he doesn't see it coming. There's only the muted sound of shuffling feet to warn him and he turns just in time for the knife to glance off his side, a hot flash of pain that barely registers. Distantly he hears Steve yell, his instincts faster than Sam's, and then there's the crack of a rifle and a blooming fountain of red on the HYDRA agent's chest before Sam can even reach for his gun.

Sam watches the agent drop to the floor, knife falling from his hand with a dull clatter. Two more agents emerge from the end of the hall, and damn it, Sam isn't going to let super soldiers have all the fun. In one fluid motion, he raises his gun, firing two quick shots down the hall. Whatever erupts from the muzzle of the gun looks sort of like a laser, and has the neat effect of vaporizing both HYDRA agents.

“Holy shit,” Sam says, nearly dropping it.

“Careful where you aim that thing,” Steve orders tersely. “C'mon, we need to get out of here. _Now_.”

They make it out the door without further incident, stepping from the eerie, clinical light of the base into the dark of night. It takes a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust, but when they do, he can see a few fallen agents outside the base, already gunned down.

He can't see Steve's expression, hidden in the shadows, but he hears him mutter darkly, “Someone's shot out the lights already.”

“That's a good thing, right?” Sam asks, half jogging to keep up with Steve. His side is burning a bit, like he's run too far without stretching, and there's a telltale wetness trickling warmly down his skin.

Steve doesn't answer. He stalks ahead, an imposing shadow cutting through the still night. It's not until Sam almost trips, letting out a muffled curse, that Steve stops and turns back to him.

“Sam,” he says sharply, staring at his side. “You're bleeding.”

“What? I'm fine, man. It's a scratch.”

Steve doesn't look happy about that answer, but slows his pace for the next half block until they stumble across a parked car. A short time later, Sam collapses into the passenger seat as Steve peels out, leaving the ransacked base in their review mirror.

-

“A _scratch_ ,” Steve says later, sounding equal parts angry and concerned. Sam's got his shirt rucked up to his armpits, laying on his good side as Steve wipes a damp cloth over the already tacky blood. “I think you need stitches.”

“So stitch me up,” Sam grumbles. It's not like it's his fault he doesn't have super human healing powers, unlike _some_ people in this room.

Steve's capable of a great many things, including the loudest silence Sam has ever heard. He doesn't say a word as he finishes cleaning out the gash, closing it with neat, even stitches. Sam grits his teeth against the sting, but it's not the worst injury he's had by a long shot. It barely hurts at all by the time Steve gently tapes a wad of gauze over his handiwork, the bright, sterile white at odds with the rest of Sam's grimy, sweat-soaked clothes.

When he finishes, Sam sits up with a wince, ignoring the sharp look Steve gives him.

“What's with the cold shoulder, man? You know I didn't get sliced on purpose.”

Steve sighs, instantly deflating. “I _know_. It's just... I didn't think it'd be this dangerous.”

Sam turns his snort of laughter into a cough that pulls at his fresh stitches. “You didn't think _chasing down the Winter Soldier_ would be dangerous?”

Dropping his head into his hands, Steve folds over himself until he looks less like an indestructible American icon and more like a vulnerable kid with the weight of the world sitting heavily on his shoulders.

“No, no, I knew it would be...” he trails off for a long moment. When he starts talking again, his voice is quiet, unsure. “I got a bit of a blind spot, when it comes to Bucky. I'd do anything to protect him, consequences be damned, and I,” he swallows. “I got so caught up in finding him again, I forgot that there are other people I'm scared of losing.”

Steve looks up, catching Sam's eye. “People like _you_. And I can't... I can't ask you to risk your life like that.”

“Well,” Sam says after a moment. “I didn't realize all I needed to do to get a heartfelt confession from Captain America himself was get stabbed.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Steve tosses back, but the words sound fond. The skin between his eyes is still creased with worry, though, and Sam nudges him with his knee. “You didn't ask, remember? I volunteered. I'm not going anywhere, man.”

Some of the tension in Steve's shoulders leaks away and he offers Sam a tired smile. His eyes are a clouded blue, though, and Sam nudges him again.

“There's something else, isn't there?”

Nodding, Steve says carefully, “Back at the base. Someone else took out the soldiers outside, shot out the lights for cover.” Sam realizes that Steve's got a phone in his hand, turning it over and over like a nervous tick. “Nat says all the Avengers are accounted for. It wasn't them helping us.”

“So there's someone else in Switzerland who's not a big HYRDA fan?”

“Someone else who knew we were there, and cleared the hallways for us.” Steve nods at Sam's side. “Someone else who fired the bullet that took out the guy who stabbed you. Someone faster than me.”

Sam lets out a long exhale. “Not exactly a lot of candidates, are there?”

“No,” Steve agrees, lips quirked in a tiny, hopeful smile.

-

They hole up for a few days while Steve thinks through their next move, waiting on Nat to sort through the files he sent, and Sam pokes at his stitches, dissatisfied with the slow healing. Steve threatens to duct tape him to the bed if he doesn't stop, then trips over his words to take it back when he realizes the implications.

“You're cute when you blush,” Sam tells him gleefully and Steve stops talking to him for an entire forty-five minutes.

He forgets to hold his grudge when his phone buzzes with a new message, telling Sam excitedly that Nat found something in the intel they managed to steal from the base.

“How do you feel about Italy?” he asks, eyes bright with excitement.

Sam considers it. “Very favorably,” he decides.

-

After a long, intense debate with himself that makes Sam want to pop some popcorn and settle back to enjoy the show, Steve finally decides the best course to Italy is via quiet back roads in a small, beat up car he pays for in cash from a shifty-eyed salesman.

“You know this thing is gonna break down in like fifty miles,” Sam points out, knees folded nearly to his chin as he squeezes into the passenger seat.

Steve's contorted like a pretzel himself to fit, grim expression on his face as the ignition takes five tries to turn over. “Can't risk stealing another car. We need to cut out as many risks as possible, because if Bucky is really following us--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam interrupts. “Don't want to scare him off, I got it. But you couldn't find something a little more... spacious?”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “I'll have Nat wire us more money once we're in Milan. Right now, I just want to put some distance between us and HYDRA.”

“Why do I get the feeling that's easier said than done?”

-

Nat's info is good, because they find another base in the heart of Milan.

Unfortunately, nothing really goes as planned after that.

“When I said I wanted something more spacious,” Sam shouts into Steve's ear, “I didn't mean this!”

Steve takes a sharp corner with more speed than the Vespa is capable of, tires skidding dangerously before he rights them. Sam clings harder, arms wrapped around Steve's waist like a vice. He can feel the muscles of Steve's stomach shaking with wild laughter as they careen down a narrow alley, nearly taking out a dumpster.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm gonna die.”

“Relax, Sam. I got this,” Steve shouts back as they plummet down a crumbling stone staircase, Sam's teeth clacking hard at every jarring impact.

“I don't believe you!” Not for the first time, Sam wishes he had his wings. Flying beats driving any day, especially when Steve's at the wheel. Or Vespa handles, as it were. The sound of tires screeching to a halt behind them is a good sign that they've managed to lose the agents on their tail, the dark SUV too big to follow them down the narrow staircase.

The sudden downpour of bullets is a really bad sign that they're not going to live to tell the tale.

“Hold on,” Steve yells and the Vespa tilts alarmingly towards the ground, Sam's legs nearly scraping the pavement as they take another tight corner. It's too much for the scooter to handle and with a shout, they skid into a pile of garbage spilling out from an overfilled dumpster.

The smell is nothing to write home about, but it cushions the impact of the crash. Steve takes the worst of it, Sam slamming into his back, and they both groan. Sam rolls over, ignoring the hot flair of pain in his side, and sees that the Vespa is smashed beyond repair, front wheel spinning uselessly in the air.

Steve has a quicker recovery time, jumping to his feet and pulling Sam up behind him. “C'mon, c'mon, in here,” he orders, ducking into the first door they see. They've got a few minutes, tops, before the agents give up on the car chase and follow them on foot, find the crashed scooter, and put it together that they're legging it.

“Shit,” Sam grunts, doubled over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath as Steve takes in their surroundings with an intense gaze. It looks like they're in a stockroom of some kind of clothing store, plastic covered garments filling the racks. Sam glances down at his own clothes, jeans torn and dirty, shirt smelling faintly of garbage. Steve doesn't look any better.

“Now would be a great time for one of your bright ideas,” he suggests helpfully.

Stalking over to one of the racks, Steve flips through the selection, lip caught between his teeth in concentration.

“Or, you know, we could do a little retail therapy. Always cheers me right up when I'm having a rough day.”

Steve ignores him, still flicking through the clothes. He must find what he's looking for, because he pulls out an outfit with a triumphant grin. “Take off your clothes,” he orders.

“You want me to _what_?”

Tossing the outfit to him, Steve adds, “Put that on. I have an idea, all right?”

Mindful of the HYDRA agents no doubt trawling through the alley just outside the door, Sam strips off his clothes in record time, pulling on the well-tailored suit Steve has picked out for him. Steve makes quick work of his own clothes, discarding them in favor of pair of creased slacks and matching navy blazer.

“Are we role playing Bond agents?” Sam asks. “Because I'm not discounting this strategy, but--”

Digging through another shelf, Steve makes an elated noise and throws something at Sam over his shoulder. Sam catches it one-handed, looking down at the bottle of expensive cologne.

“Is this your subtle way of saying I smell?”

“Like garbage,” Steve confirms with a grin, spraying himself with his own bottle. He unearths two pairs of sunglasses from another shelf, handing one to Sam.

“Follow my lead, okay?” Without waiting for a response, he steps through the door leading from the backroom into the main store. Sam sticks to his heels, ignoring the sweat pricking at his temples and trying to look less out of place than he feels in this fancy boutique.

Steve strolls through the shop with feigned casualness, pausing to hold the front door for Sam.

“You sure about this?” Sam whispers as he steps past Steve, onto the crowded sidewalk outside.

He nods earnestly. “Nat taught me this trick. Just act natural.”

The thing Steve failed to realize is that to succeed in being undercover, it's best not to look like you just stepped out of a Calvin Klein catalogue. Sam spots heads turning as they walk down the street, and while Steve isn't recognizable as Captain America without his stars and stripes, he's not exactly just another face in the crowd.

Sam earns his own fair share of glances, which is a nice ego boost, but doesn't really bode well for the plan to disappear from under HYDRA's nose.

A familiar black SUV rounds the corner and Sam presses closer to Steve.

“Did Nat have any tips on what to do when you're about to be made?”

Steve's eyes flick between the approaching SUV and Sam's face. “She said that public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”

“Well, she's not wrong--” Sam starts to say, but cuts himself off when Steve grips him by the shoulders and backs him into the wall.

“Uh, Steve?” he asks, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Trust me,” he mutters, and then there's a large, warm hand cupping Sam's face and Steve's ducking his head down to press his mouth to Sam's. He grabs at Steve's waist on instinct, but can't figure out if he wants to push him away or pull him closer. Steve seems unconcerned, tilting his head to better fit their mouths together, thumb brushing softly against Sam's jawline.

Sam's not sure how long they kiss before Steve finally pulls away, looking at Sam with wide eyes before glancing around behind him.

“They, um. Looks like we're clear,” he stutters out, taking a hurried step backwards. He turns to march down the street and Sam starts after him a moment later. The pinched feeling in his side is back and he's thankful the suit Steve picked for him is dark enough that blood won't show. His lips feel a bit numb and he grips the back of his neck where the skin is prickling. There's no point in looking around to find the eyes that are watching him, he already knows.

-

They get a hotel room with two beds and Sam fixes the blinds until there are no gaps, no crevices, no chinks in their armor.

“So,” he says when he's satisfied, turning his back towards the window. “Are we gonna talk about that little stunt of yours?”

“Hmm?” Steve says. “Oh, wow, I'm really tired. Just exhausted. Think I'll just go straight to sleep, actually.”

“Uh huh.” Sliding off his dark jacket, Sam reaches for the buttons on his snowy white dress shirt. Steve's eyes track the movement before darting down Sam's chest, then he's suddenly climbing to his feet and stalking over.

Letting his lips slide into a smirk, Sam moves on to the next button, but Steve just grabs at his shirt and tugs it free from the confines of his pants. “What the hell, Sam? Why didn't you tell me you pulled your stitches?”

Sam glances down at the rusty stain on his shirt, winces at the puckered, inflamed skin underneath. He hisses out a breath when Steve's fingers drift too close. Steve snatches his hand back like he's been burned.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Here, let me...” he disappears into the bathroom, emerging a moment later with a damp cloth. Sam leans against the edge of the desk, lets Steve wash away the blood with careful swipes even though he could do it just as easily himself.

“I'm not actually made of glass, you know,” he reminds Steve when he's dabbing gently at the cut with antiseptic.

“But you don't heal like I do,” Steve argues. “You're used to modern medicine, you haven't seen – look, more soldiers died from infection than the original wound.”

It's all Sam can do not to roll his eyes. “Pretty sure I'll survive this.”

Steve's lips purse into a frown, but he doesn't say anything else as he finishes bandaging Sam's side. Once the gauze is securely in place, Steve announces he's going to take a shower.

Sam's prepared to wait him out, but his eyes start to droop after twenty minutes when the adrenaline high wears off. He's out cold by the time Steve reemerges, flat on his back on top of the blanket, snoring loudly.

-

Steve's either still asleep or doing his best undercover work yet when Sam wakes up in the morning. He stalls as long as he can, but he hates to wake Steve up when he so rarely sleeps, and his stomach is growling mutinously. Leaving a hastily scribbled note taped to Steve's forehead, Sam walks down the street to a quiet cafe with outdoor seating and a well rounded breakfast menu.

He's sipping at a steaming cup of coffee and trying to decide how he wants his eggs prepared when someone sits down in the chair across from his. Lifting his eyes from the menu, Sam takes in the Winter Soldier's appearance. His hair is still long, tickling his chin, but it looks more or less combed where it's peeking out from beneath his baseball cap. He's clean-shaven, dressed casually in civvies, and his eyes are a piercing blue that could rival Steve's.

“Coffee?” Sam asks, gesturing to the second cup on the table.

“You're not surprised I'm here,” the Winter Soldier says, an observation, as if he's talking about something mundane like the weather.

Shrugging, Sam adds another spoonful of cream to his own coffee. “Should I be? You've been following us since Reims.” He stirs his spoon in slow circles. “You got sloppy at that base in Switzerland.”

The Winter Soldier's brow furrows. “I saved your ass at the base in Switzerland.”

Sam sits back in his seat, eyes Barnes over the rim of his cup. “You did. Why?”

He doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink. “You're important to Steve.”

Sam takes another sip of his coffee, buying himself a minute to think. So far Barnes has been fairly talkative, has confirmed everything Sam suspected. He also hasn't tried to kill Sam even once, so Sam decides to press his luck.

“If you're so hung up on Steve, why are you here with me?”

For a long moment, Barnes doesn't respond and Sam thinks he's gone too far, too fast. Finally, though, he opens his mouth, and says in a quiet voice, “He's going to get himself killed if he's not careful. You need to take him home and keep him safe.”

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee. “You want _me_ to keep _Captain America_ safe?”

Barnes glares at him, clearly unamused. “He cares about you. He'll listen to you.”

Setting his coffee down safely on the table, Sam shakes his head. “Nah, man. He's not going to stop until he finds you.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “A lot of things have changed since 1945, but that hasn't.”

Barnes looks away for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. When he speaks again, his response catches Sam off guard. “He kissed you.”

“Like I said,” Sam answers after a minute. “A lot of things have changed since 1945.”

“Me 'n Steve, it wasn't – we weren't like that,” Barnes says, the words bubbling out in a rush, flavored with a hint of New York Sam hasn't heard before. “But Steve, he – there was Peggy, he loved her, I know he did, but he—”

“Did you?” Sam asks, gently, because Bucky sounds desperate, tripping over himself to confess whatever's on the tip of his tongue.

Bucky shakes his head, eyes fixed on the table in front of him. “He was my brother,” he says simply. “And – and I loved him, but...” he looks up, meeting Sam's gaze, sad eyes begging. “He would have been happy with Peggy. He _should've_ been happy with Peggy, but he's a reckless _idiot_.” Bucky takes a deep breath. “He needs someone to look after him. I need _you_ to look after him.”

“Because he kissed me?” Sam asks wryly.

“Because he _loves_ you,” Bucky counters. “And you love him.”

Sam sits up abruptly. “No, wait a minute, I don't--”

“You do,” Bucky insists.

For a long moment, neither one of them speaks, the words hanging heavily between them.

“I don't understand why you're so quick to write yourself out of this equation,” Sam finally says.

The Winter Soldier's lips curve into a phantom of Bucky's smile, years falling from his face until Sam feels disoriented, like he's looking at two faces superimposed together and seeing the cracks between the images.

“Tell Steve he's spent enough time chasing ghosts. Tell him it's time to go home.” He rises from his chair, apparently done with this conversation, and turns to walk away.

“You're the idiot,” Sam yells at his retreating back. “If you think Steve will ever give up without a fight!”

If Bucky hears him, he doesn't show any sign. Instead he disappears around the corner without a backwards glance, like he was never there at all.

-

Sam's coffee has gone cold by the time Steve joins him, hair a wreck and sheepish smile on his face.

“Sorry,” he says, sliding into Bucky's vacated chair. “Guess I was more tired than I thought.”

“Mmm,” Sam replies. “Sure you weren't avoiding me?”

Eyes fixed firmly on his menu, Steve makes a noncommittal noise. “Why would I be avoiding you?”

“Because you knew as soon as I saw you, I was gonna ask you about that kiss?” Sam offers.

Steve lets his head slump onto the table. “C'mon, Sam. I haven't even had my coffee yet.”

“Yeah, and I was interrogated by the Winter Soldier before I could even order my eggs. Seems like we've both had terrible mornings.”

Steve's head snaps up so fast Sam's surprised he doesn't break his neck. “You what?”

Nodding to the menu, Sam instructs, “Order your breakfast. We're gonna be here awhile.”

-

“He said _what_?” Steve yelps around a mouthful of toast.

“Well, to be fair, crashing your plane into the arctic _was_ a bit reckless,” Sam points out.

“That's not what I – listen, it was the only way to stop HYDRA, there was a _war_ going on, and Bucky was dead, how could he expect – I couldn't – me 'n Peggy, it wasn't--”

“God,” Sam interrupts. “You two idiots deserve each other, you know that?”

Steve glares at him with eyes cooler than a glacier and Sam feels a weary sense of deja vu. Buttering his croissant, he points his knife at Steve. “No, I'm serious. I've never met two people with such constipated emotions, it's incredible. For someone who claims to always tell the truth, you're pretty handy at deflecting.”

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times before he gives up, dropping his head in his hands. “I'm no good at this,” he mumbles. “Bucky was always the one who talked to dames.”

Sam snorts. “Do I look like a dame to you?”

“No, you...” Steve lifts his head, licks his lower lip. “Definitely not a dame.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam takes a bite of croissant. “You're off to a great start, Rogers.”

“Shut up, Sam. I'm _trying_ , here.” Steve takes a steadying breath, squaring up his shoulders like he's preparing for a fight. “Bucky was... he was everything, y'know? Growing up, I had next to nothing, but – I always had Bucky. _Always_. Until the war, anyway.”

Lowering his croissant to his plate, Sam ignores the prickle on the back of his neck as Steve picks up steam, words tumbling out like they're scalding his tongue.

“I did everything I could to do my part, to help the war effort, but I... the second I heard the 107th had been captured, I dropped everything, because there was a chance, a sliver of hope, that Bucky was still alive.” He pauses. “Well, you probably know the rest. I wasn't – I was never in love, with Buck, never felt the way about him that I did about Peggy, but... I don't think I could ever be happy, in a world without him, y'know?”

“Steve,” Sam says with a sigh.

“No, no, I know – seventy years on ice, and I was finally figuring out how to move on, how to – how to exist, I guess, in a world where Buck was just a footnote.” He smiles sadly. “But he wasn't, was he? Thanks to HYDRA, he shaped the whole damn future.”

“You can't blame yourself for that, Steve.” Sam reminds him.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Look, Sam...” he glances up, eyes locking on Sam's. “I'm going to be honest, okay? I love Bucky, I loved Peggy, and I love you. I don't love any of you in the exact same way, and I'm still trying to figure that out. I think – I _know_ – the way I love you is different than how I felt about Bucky, 'cause I can't stop thinking about kissing you again, and I... I need to be completely honest. There's always going to be a space in my heart that no-one but Bucky can ever touch, and it's not _fair_ , to make you compete with that, it's not, but...”

Steve shrugs, helpless. “I'm a selfish man, and I want you anyway.”

“Well,” Sam says, when it becomes clear that Steve's waiting for some kind of response. “The thing is... the thing is, I know a thing or two about losing someone irreplaceable, and about being selfish, and about learning to carry the weight of baggage that feels like it's dragging you down. I know exactly why Barnes cares so much about you, and it's got nothing to do with that shield you insist on lugging around everywhere.”

Sam reaches out, grabbing Steve's hand with his own. A smile pulls at the corner of Steve's mouth as he turns his hand over, threading his fingers through Sam's.

“The thing is,” Sam continues, “I would follow you around the entire world, if you wanted to chase Barnes down.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “But I'd prefer to follow you home, keep you safe, and not have to worry about an assassin trailing me just to make sure I keep you in line.”

Steve mirrors him, tilting forward until their foreheads are nearly touching. “What about the kissing part?” he asks seriously. “Is that on the table, because I'm being honest, here, and I think that should be on the table.”

Sam can't stop the grin that slides across his face. “Are you always so literal?”

Sliding his hand around the back of Sam's neck, Steve tugs him closer. “Is that a yes?”

“What kind of man would I be, if I didn't reward honesty?”

His elbow ends up in his eggs and Steve knocks his coffee off the table, the porcelain crashing to the ground with a crash, but what are a few casualties, really, when victory means the hot press of Steve's mouth against his, a slick slide of lips and tongue that makes Sam's pulse thrum under his skin.

They end up getting kicked out of the cafe and Sam feels a set of eyes on him the entire walk back to the hotel, but he doesn't worry.

He's got some great plans on how to keep Steve in line, and a feeling that Bucky's going to factor heavily into the equation. Not everyone gets a happily ever after, he knows, but some people get a second chance.

Maybe that will be enough.

 


End file.
